


To Hell in a Muscle Car

by Perdition (GrumpyBones)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 47 driving innuendos, Butt Sex, Case Gone Wrong, Castiel gets off easy, Dean has sex with the car, Fingering, I'm almost sorry, M/M, Sam's internet history, What Have I Done, a little bit of a crack fic vibe going on, but not like that, it's a human if that makes this any better, or right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 23:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18508993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyBones/pseuds/Perdition
Summary: “Tell them, sweetheart,” and Dean is trying to keep his blood pressure down, blushing definitely not going to help this situation. “I know you recognize your Baby, baby.”





	To Hell in a Muscle Car

**Author's Note:**

> Do not let the beginning of this fic fool you. Things jump the tracks about halfway through. 
> 
> I'm willing to admit that this, in whole, was entirely unnecessary.
> 
> Written for logicallythyla so go yell at her.

Dean’s pancakes are barely out of the pan when Sam starts talking shop.

“Hey, get this, I found an article about a college in Nebraska? Couple weeks ago, totally normal day until suddenly every single door and window on the first two stories suddenly vanish around 3.”

“What? You sure it isn’t some kind of spoof story?”

Sam nods as his finger skips along the track-pad of his laptop, Dean having been through this enough to know he’s switching tabs even if he can’t actually see it happening.

“I thought the same thing but _then,_ ” click, “I found this other article. Same town, week after that, everyone within the city boundary line wakes up completely devoid of seasonal allergies.”

“That’s —”

Sam’s hand comes up, two fingers waving him silent.

“And _then,_ ” click, “last week, an entire neighborhood comes home to find a dog in their house.”

“The same dog?”

He’s finally spared a look, even if it’s just so Sam can ensure his annoyed expression is fully witnessed. “No, Dean. Different dogs. But no one knows where they came from. Local shelters aren't missing any canines and there’s no increase of missing pet reports in the area,” Sam’s hand nearly knocks over his coffee as he waves it around, gesturing at the laptop screen with obvious irritation. “Zero signs of break ins.”

“And a bunch of pooches finding loving homes is suddenly our problem?” The look he gets is worse than the previous one. “Okay, this is probably bad somehow, right? Where’s the _but_ in all this?”

“That’s what bothers me,” and Dean’s almost sure that he's lost Sam to a sea of google results when he suddenly finds the second half of that thought. “It’s not like the building was on fire or anything, a firetruck got everyone out of a third story window within an hour. The dogs were all friendly mutts, no attacks, no injuries. And botanists have already confirmed that the plant population is totally fine, pollen counts are as high as ever — people there just aren’t sneezing about it anymore,” expression making it abundantly clear how personally he’s taking the low body count.

“But you’ve found a reason to be upset about this anyways?”

There’s an eye roll that slides Sam’s focus back to the world wide web, fingers returning to key smashing as he clings to the idea of finding the drawback that even Dean admits must exist. _Happily Ever After,_ isn’t exactly the most reoccurring ending to their wonky Wednesdays.

“I don’t know, Dean. Someone or something with serious juice has to be behind it but there’s barely anything linking the events to each other other than proximity. There's no clear motive. No one has so much as sprained an ankle far as I can find.”

Dean takes a swing, knowing it's a miss, “Demon deals? Genie?”

Sam shakes his head, frustration flaring.

“I mean if people were walking out of hospice or winning the lottery it’d be one thing — but who the hell sells their soul so that an entire town can shelf their Claritin?”

“Another Trickster?”

Half of Sam’s face scrunches up as he shakes his head, “Right power level but wrong rationale — this stuff barely reaches inconvenience grade. I’m not sure anyone really walks away feeling like they were served their just desserts over being a few minutes late for dinner.”

“Where exactly is this all playing out?”

“Some nowhere town in Nebraska. Brainard?”

Dean’s fork moves a little faster at that as a 3 hours drive instantly translates to Sam wanting to be on the road before lunch, even if packing time eats into breakfast.

“The whole thing is so freaking weird,” Sam continues, a master at ignoring the way Dean’s squirreling his carbs away. “Textbook definition chaotic neutral level weird,” he pauses again, squinting at Dean as he asks himself more than the company, “Maybe whatever it is doesn’t even know that it’s doing it?”

“Sure, Sammy,” he manages around a mouthful of homefries. “Something that damn powerful, with no way of controlling it, and a freaking puppy give away is the worst it's got. Good money’s still on the whole thing being series of pranks.”

“No, you’re right. They could be keeping some details out of the papers and this is a lot more simple than it reads from the outside. It'll probably end up being a giant waste of time, but I still think it’s worth a look,” before adding, like an idiot, “I bet it won't even be that memorable.”

 

* * *

 

It always amazes Dean how easy it is to find the bad guys when they don’t _know_ they’re the bad guys. That’s a notch in her favor. A quick search of the students attending disappearing-doors-university overlapped with the residents of doggy-drive is enough to find her, the prescription level Allegra sitting unpicked up at her local Walgreens is an unnecessary nail in the supernatural coffin.

Yet even with Dean’s unnaturally high level of suspicions, he finds himself a little hard pressed to spot the villain in the blonde ray of sunshine donning the Starbucks apron and the _Steph_ name tag in the cafe down the street.

The next notch comes in the form of the relief that floods her expression when Sam begins to explain who they are and what they do. That is, after he stops laughing at the noise Dean makes after being kneed in the balls (charging up to a girl in a dark empty parking lot not making an appearance on his list of greatest ideas).

“So it really is me,” and Dean feels bad for her, despite his lingering caution, when her whole face falls as the words tumble out.

The diner she agreed to follow them to has seen better days. Two of the three plates they’ve received are dangerously chipped, the table rocking wildly every time Dean has the nerve to put his arm on it, and he’d be more surprised to see a mop in the joint than if Abe Lincoln himself came strolling in. It’s one hell of a place to receive life changing news.

“You really didn’t know?” The affirmative answer he expects clearly evident in Sam’s tone.

“I thought I was crazy for even thinking it,” she shrugs, staring down at her personal serving of salmonella. “I _still_ feel crazy for thinking it. But it only takes so many crazies to make crazy sound less crazy than it all being a coincidence.”

Dean’s still tracking the path of that sentence when Sam plows through it to a response, “The school?”

“I was late for an interview, I never should have agreed to meeting them right after a lab — they always run late. I was trying to come up with some excuse I could give them to let me reschedule with such short notice when suddenly everyone was screaming about how all the doors were gone.”

“The dogs?”

“I just finished gushing at the neighbor’s as they walked by and when I opened the door the little guy was sitting there in my apartment. I think everyone else’s were just collateral damage.”

“And the allergies are pretty self explanatory.”

She nods, “I think my asthma disappeared too. I ran like 10 miles the other day and never even thought about my inhaler,” eyes skirting around the diner. “I’m not sure about anyone else's’.”

“What about less recently?” Dean finally asks. “All of these fall within a 3 week radius. Anything less present tense?”

There’s a moment of indecision on her face before it breaks, “Strange things have always happened to me but never anything like this. We’re talking a teacher getting sick the day of a test I didn’t study for, getting the last pumpkin muffin a couple of days in a row. Lucky stuff, nothing near the level that’s been going on since my birthday. I swear.”

“We believe you,” sincere Sam coming out in full force, his giantasaur hand looking ridiculous as it reaches out to cover half of her forearm. “When was your birthday?”

“The day before the school thing,” she looks between the two of them. “I turned 21, if that means anything to you guys?”

Dean catches Sam’s eyes for only a second, both of their expressions obviously void of a breakthrough.

“We have some people we can call, maybe they’ll know something. We’re going to help you figure this out.”

By the time they bid Steph goodbye for the night Sam ends up with a cautious 500 batting average. Dean is still reeling from the fact that someone can possess powers great enough to rearrange an entire community’s immune system without even knowing it and yet somehow hasn’t unintentionally caused someone to implode.

Jury’s still out on _memorable,_ an unusually difficult grade to achieve for people in their line of work, though odds are definitely leaning in favor of Sam going 1 for 2.

 

* * *

 

“Some type of fairy,” Cas states in his normal tone, dry and level as if he’s ordering a hamburger.

“You don’t think she’d know she’s a fairy? This has all just started recently, Cas,” and he tries, honestly, not to sound ungrateful for the help when him and Sam alone have come up with a grand total of nothing.

“Perhaps she’s a hybrid? Does she know her parents?” Dean looks up from his phone, currently set to speaker, nodding to Sam who immediately pulls out his own and starts texting.

“Sam’s gonna check in with Steph about it. Still though, any theories on why the sudden surge? She’s either a great actress or this really is new, man. She looked terrified.”

“You said she just turned 21?” Dean hums an affirmative. “The numbers 3 and 7 are both very powerful in fae lore. 21 is a factor of both,” and even he doesn’t sound like he quite buys it.

“Sounds uncomfortably uncomplicated.”

And Dean almost misses Cas’ “You called me because _you_ have no better ideas,” complaint as Sam shoves a screen in his face.

“Grew up in foster care,” Dean reads. “She’s tried before but no luck tracking down her birth parents.”

“Then finding a complete answer may not be feasible, a solution should take priority.”

“We are _not_ killing her,” Sam interjects, his not-my-fault-I-had-powers bruise clearly feeling poked.

Dean swears Cas’ eye roll is an audible thing.

“Termination was not going to be my suggestion,” he pauses for Sam’s mumbled apology. “Perhaps it can be as easy as training her how to control them? There’s no evidence suggesting that, with some discipline, they can’t become elective,” and Cas is stupid enough to tack on, “It isn’t like she’s hurting anyone.”

 

* * *

 

It’s only day 4 when she calls Sam sobbing.

It was an _accident_. An accident without dire results, but an escalation nonetheless.

She was walking to the store after a sleepless night followed by a coffeeless morning and some douche bag in a Camaro decided his opinion on Stephanie’s anatomy was desperately needed. _‘Tits,’_ was still rolling off of his tongue when the steering wheel pulled to the right and locked there, breaks jamming for no mechanically explainable reason, and the hood had wrapped decidedly around a tree trunk.

The guy would be out of the hospital within a month, tops, and Dean couldn’t claim that a real loss to society had occurred one way or the other. But he also isn’t the one that just nearly killed somebody. Small factors like that tend to shape one’s opinion on the subject.

Sam’s voice lowers and lowers, as if consoling a wounded animal, to the point that Dean, not 10 feet away, barely hears him when he tells her about the bunker.

“It’s secluded, it’ll keep you and everyone else safe, if you’re comfortable coming with us? Just until we figure things out.”

Dean’s already texting Cas to steer southward, _‘Change of plans. Punch in Lebanon, we’re heading to the bunker with Steph. Fill you in later,’_ as Sam tries to explain that they’ve dealt with a world of hurt worse than being flung into flora.

 

* * *

 

Homicidally inclined or not, Dean can appreciate anyone that packs lightly and he isn’t exactly quiet about the number of bags in his girl’s truck that belong to Sam versus him and Steph combined.

“Get us a car that isn’t a New York block long and I’ll start worrying about taking up too much storage space,” he quickly quips back.

“Body shaming? From your liberal ass?” The weight of Sam’s sigh is almost enough to rock the entire chassis. “Don’t listen to him,” Dean coos as he fingertips stroke the arch of the steering wheel, “you know I think you’re perfect just the way you are, girl,” his eyes slide past Sam who is staring decidedly out the side window in an obvious attempt to forget about his brother’s existence, peeking over his shoulder to the backseat and Steph for just a second. “Listen, I really believe you that the Camaro thing was just a,” he chooses his next word carefully, “mishap. But if you could try _real hard_ to leave Baby out of it, I’m more than happy to let you toss Sam around.”

“Baby?”

Sam’s snort breaks his self-imposed solitude.

“He means the car. Dean’s always had a borderline incestuous relationship with this thing.”

“It isn’t incestuous. I’m not _related_  to the car.”

Sam’s head rocks against the window in Dean's peripheral.

“The fact that that’s the only thing you find wrong with my statement is so concerning.”

Stephanie laughs uncomfortably from the back but graciously doesn’t ask to be let out to take her chances hitchhiking back to town.

 

* * *

 

Cas is only a day behind them.

“You’re an angel?” Steph blurts out, eyeing him up and down half a dozen times before wielding her raised eyebrow at Dean.

Dean’s so freaking used to the sight of him by now that he forgets sometimes. Cas isn’t exactly the stained glass depiction of his species the general population is used to. The bedhead, the wrinkled trench coat, the 5 O’Clock shadow… they’re not exactly the tried and true puzzle pieces of a stereotypically biblical picture. He’s trying to find a way to gently clarify that the reality of western religion is a little less… haloey than you’d likely hear about in a church pew when Cas saves the day by misunderstanding.

“Ish,” he offers instead of an actual explanation, complete with a so-so hand gesture. “It is a long story,” and thankfully Steph seems to get that she’s better off cutting her losses.

Dean’s not sure if his brain simply isn’t capable of producing any more of the emotion _surprise_ after 40 years of this bullshit or if things making sense have simply been redefined for him but either way, the two of them becoming best friends by dinner doesn’t seem to phase any of them.

He tunes in and out as Cas tries to describe the way he focuses his powers via a language that obviously, even to Dean, doesn’t have the adjectives he needs to do so. Steph listens with an expression of only vague understanding, balancing it out by obviously applying maximum effort.

“If we can get you to learn how to use them, how to recognize them inside of yourself, then harnessing them in should follow instinctively. Once you’ve become intune with what they feel like, I believe, you’ll find it a lot easier to keep them from becoming volatile.”

And as both their expressions turn to a shade of hopeful it’s Dean’s turn to curse them when he has the nerve to think, _Things could be epically worse._

 

* * *

 

Day 7, 3rd in the Bunker, and only minor progress has been made. Despite the crawling pace Cas still manages to sound pretty sincere when he insists he has faith in their eventual success, that things like this always take time.

“Where we at?” Sam mumbles to him as he enters the room, handing one coffee off to Dean as his giant frame plops onto the chair next to his.

At the other end of the long table Cas and Steph continue on unperturbed, either truly fantastic at ignoring interruptions or more plausibly just concentrating too hard to care about the Winchester comings and goings.

“We gave up on the moving the cup thing, yesterday’s inch seems to have been about all we’re going to collect on that. So now Cas is trying to get her to transform it into something else instead.”

Sam’s whole face scrunches at that.

“That seems… harder.”

“I thought so too at first. But she actually has more experience with it, if you think about it. Doors and windows rearranging into brick walls, dogs appearing out of thin air? Lord only knows what she did to those 400 nasal cavities,” Sam starts nodding along. “The steering wheel in the car was the only thing we know of that she actually moved and that coincided with the biggest emotional response. So they’re trying to kind of combine them.”

“By verbally harassing her while she practices?”

“What would that even sound like coming from Cas?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “No, he just told her to imagine the cup as something she has an emotional connection to. Bad or good. Just anything with a strong memory attached to it, hoping that will heighten the fairy senses.”

“Makes sense,” Sam replies, or tries to. Instead he barely gets out a, “Makes sea-NAAASS,” as one of his sonic sneezes wracks him without warning.

It’s enough to make Dean jump and he’s put up with them for 36 years. Cas and Stephanie, on the other hand, look downright afraid and the fear seems to cling to them two beats after the moment has thoroughly passed. He’s about to ask what the overreaction is about when suddenly he feels it too — the total _wrongness_ in the room.

There’s a roller skate, he realizes, on the table where there ought to be a mug.

“It worked?” He asks, not sure where the lack of celebration is stemming from, the teacher/student combo staring at the damn thing like a snake in a coil.

Cas ignores his question completely, picking up the skate and holding it out alarmingly close to Stephanie’s face, “Why did you picture this? What were you thinking about?” His tone completely off base from the reassuringly casual he’s boasted since arriving.

And Steph, well, she sounds no better.

“There was this party I went to in middle school. A birthday party. We were at a rink and had taken a break to eat some pizza and when I got up to go the bathroom I had completely forgotten I was wearing the skates and I ended up wiping out, smashed my head against the table, and passed out in front of almost everyone in my class,” her wide eyes shifting up to Cas’. “I was embarrassed,” as if that’s critical information, adding, “Embarrassing can’t be that bad, right?”

Dean’s about to ask what the hell they’re talking about when a noise from Sam draws his attention, the look on his face enough to raise the red alarm as he follows Sam’s gaze to the mouth of the hallway where some teenager wrapped in a towel is tentatively emerging.

There’s about 5 different vocal chords expressing the same version of, _Ummmm?_ , when Cas is the first to find his reboot button.

“Do we know — Who are you?”

The young man’s face tilts, expression shifting to a softer confusion before shyly smiling, “I guess I don’t exactly look myself right now,” he pauses, eyes not leaving the angel’s. “Your hair came out really great today. We did a really good job!”

“I’m sorry,” Dean interrupts, “but maybe introductions before compliments. Who the fuck are you?”

That seems to be a harder question for the kid than it is for most people, his gaze jumping around before hovering on Cas, asking, “I guess my name would be Southern Belle?” Looking back to Dean who has no idea what to do with that information. “I’m Castiel’s hair mousse,” he says, hopefully. “He switched to using me a couple months ago. You didn’t notice?” And he honestly looks disappointed. “I’m so much more volumizing than that generic stuff he used to use. And I’m not sticky at all!”

Sam’s face is traveling the same _what the fuck_ journey as his, so Dean counts him out. Stephanie and Cas on the other hand look like polar opposite ends of the horrified spectrum. While Castiel is sporting an exemplary mortified, Steph looks like she’s about to face down the firing squad.

“Can someone not wearing a bath towel please tell me what the hell is going on?”

“You told me appearance played an important role in human interactions,” Cas begins, talking way too fast. “You were always making comments about my _sex hair_ and so I googled it and the internet said it was a feature commonly found attractive. But when I lost the ability to fly it became apparent that the sex hair —”

“Please make him stop saying ‘sex hair’,” Sam whispers next to him.

“ —was not a genetic trait but a side effect,” he pauses, trying to steel his expression back to neutral. “So I did some research into alternative means.”

“You use hair gel, dude?”

Cas crosses his arms, “I use hair _mousse_ ,” gaze skipping back to Southern Belle who is still awkwardly smiling before settling down on the table. “I’m not actually sure if that’s better or worse.”

“Worse,” Dean and Sam respond in unison.

Dean has a lot more to say on the subject when the sounds of scrambling, followed by a crash, resounds from the nearby den. There’s a universally shared deep breath taken before they hesitantly track the noise.

The shattered glass on the floor is far less concerning than the naked girl, desperately trying to cover herself up with the small blanket that normally resides on the back of the couch.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” she blurts out before anyone else can get a word in. “About the cup. It was next to me on the table when I… when this,” gesturing as much as she can at the whole of herself without unburritoing, “happened. I didn’t mean to knock it off.”

Sam’s laser focus is on the coffee table next to what’s left of his orange juice, puzzling something together when he suddenly shifts back to —

“Are you my laptop?”

She nods, smiling. “You recognize me! I guess that leaves me no choice but to forgive you!”

“Forgive me? For this? I had nothing to do with this,” and luckily Dean is the one that sees Cas’ facial rebuttal. “I didn’t… turn you into… you.”

She only rolls her eyes. “I figured that, that’s not what I meant. Let me guess, one of those crazy monsters you’re always researching?” And they’re all pretty grateful that she doesn’t pause for an actual answer. Well, Sam is until, “I’m talking about you leaving your incognito window open.”

Dean has never seen anyone lose that many shades of color that damn fast.

“Yeah, uh, I normally —”

“You’re normally more careful than that. What’s the point of turning on dark mode if any old person that opens me up is going to know you’ve been searching YouPorn for Bondage, Light Bondage, HandCuff play—”

“Dear God please stop talking about what I searched for on You… that website,” and Sam has most definitely pleaded for his life with less desperation.

But laptop-girl only looks confused.

“You didn’t search for anything else on YouPorn last night,” and Sam is dumb enough to breathe a sigh of relief right before she continues, “The only other incognito tab you had open was a web search for, ‘Pegging’,”

Sam groans from somewhere deep inside of himself before announcing to the room as a whole, “I just didn’t know what it was.”

Dean’s close enough to hear Cas ask, “What _is_ pegging?” and tries hard not to snort at the sight of Steph’s frantic head-shake.

He loses the battle, utterly, when laptop-girl points at the angel, proclaiming, “Sam Googled that question last week in normal mode,” concern growing over her face as she eyes Sam again. “Did you forget?”

“I’ve literally been to Hell and this is still the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” looking like a giraffe about to faint.

“More like the _best_ thing—”

And Dean’s never been more thrilled to be interrupted when the laptop claps her hands together excitedly, nearly dropping the blanket as she exclaims, “ _‘Nurse Patient Porn,’_! That’s what else you searched for last night while in Private!” She waves him off, “But don’t worry, you closed that one,” lip suddenly turning up into a frown. “I’m not actually sure that I’m supposed to remember that.”

“ _That’s_ the tab you chose to close?” Dean forces out around a laugh, “What the hell kind of priority system are you functioning on?”

Sam’s hands have shot up to frame his face, fingertips angrily pressing into his temples as if that’ll save him from any of this.

“Cas, Stephanie, what is _happening_ right now?”

Steph, to her credit, looks ragingly apologetic as she shifts on her feet, one hand gripping her other arm too tightly.

“I think,” she starts unsurely. “I think that when I was concentrating on turning the cup into the roller skate, well,” she looks to Cas for reassurance.

“She was focusing all of her energy on creating something that embarrassed her. When _you_ ,” and it’s definitely an accusation, “scared her that energy went everywhere. I think she somehow managed to transform these,” he glances between Belle and Laptop, “objects based off of what we ourselves would find embarrassing.”

“Sorry,” Stephanie mumbles.

“Dean was just as close as I was,” Sam snaps the way a kid would yell, _I’m not the one who started it!_ , “Why isn’t one of his embarrassments prancing around the living room right now?”

“Because I, Sam, am an open fucking book,” he crosses his arms smugly. “I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

And Sam looks like he has about a million different things he’d absolutely love to say to that when —

“Oh, I can vouch for that, Sugar Lips,” and Dean’s not sure if he’s more angry at the situation as a whole or at the fact that he knows exactly what’s standing behind him before he even turns around. “What?” That same deep voice asks. “You didn’t seem to mind the nickname when it was coming out of that marine last week.”

It doesn’t get better when Dean _does_ turn around. In front of him is suddenly a wall of a man, nearly two inches taller than Sammy and sporting arms definitely thick enough to throw said brother through a window. Dean should be concerned at just how profoundly that’s checking off his boxes but he’s a little too lost in the miles skin, rich like the color of baking chocolate and eyes the exact shade that Dean takes his coffee.

“Dean?” His brother implores him out of his stupor. “Who — what? — is this?”

But their newest addition only laughs, biting his thick bottom lip as he continues to stare at only Dean, leaning effortlessly against the door frame shoulder to naked hip. “Tell them, sweetheart,” and Dean is trying to keep his blood pressure down, blushing definitely not going to help this situation. “I know you recognize your Baby, baby.”

There’s about a hundred different things he should be doing right now, the first of which is keeping his eyes above the waistline. He’s barely able to tell himself absolutely not to look when he’s already lost the cause, the shock of what’s below the delicate trail of hair leaving him blatantly staring, fingernails digging into his palms when Sam barks out, “ _DEAN._ ”

“It’s the car, Sam,” he finally manages to grit out.

“Why are you embarrassed of the car? Everyone who has ever met you already knows you’re obsessed with it. You _love_ the car.”

“Oh, he sure does. You’ve loved all over me, haven’t you, Dean?”

Sam stills, all at once, at an atomic level.

“ _You do what?_ Gross, Dean. I drive that car too!”

“Does it make you jealous?” Baby, still smiling, asks. “When your brother takes me for a spin to the store without you?”

“I — no. I don’t care who drives you,” and Dean doesn’t even believe Dean.

“Don’t worry, honey. You’re the only one that’s been riding me hard.”

“That is —” Dean stutters, “That is such an unfortunate way to word that.”

“ _DEAN_ what the fuck have you been doing to the car?”

And his, “Nothing,” doesn’t sound nearly as convincing as Baby’s, “All sorts of things.”

“Jerk off in your bed like a normal human being.”

“Oh? When we’re out sharing a motel room? You want me yanking the chain with you drooling 15 feet away from me? Ya pervert.”

Sam isn’t buying it, and he shouldn’t be.

“How often do we even do that anymore? You’re out there in the car trying to get caught pulling your pud but _I’M_ the pervert?”

“I promise, he always takes me someplace nice and private. Dean doesn’t want to get caught. He just can’t help liking the way all that white looks against all my smooth black —”

“I know you think you’re helping, Baby,” and he’s trying not to panic here, “but hearing about their brother’s cum literally has never calmed anyone down.”

“I swear to fucking God Dean, do not tell me you aren’t using a shirt or something. Do not tell me I’ve been sitting in your fucking jizz stain.”

“Don’t worry Sammy, he cleans me up real good afterwards. Get’s those fingers deep into every little crevice.”

Dean’s hands come together in prayer, angled out towards the interruption, “I am literally begging you to stop helping.”

Stephanie could definitely be quieter when she offers, “Mousse doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?” To an agreeing Castiel.

Sam ignores it, staring at Dean like he just witnessed him tear apart a baby kitten, “No more. I am not letting you anywhere near the car alone ever again.”

“We’re not always alone Sam,” and Dean’s expression morphs into a new stage of regret.

“What, the ever living hell, does he mean by that?”

“Well taking people back to our secret bunker or to a two-twin room I’m splitting with my brother aren’t actually stellar options.”

“Then go back to their place!”

“Oh, so every girl you meet is totally cool with having a stranger in their house?”

“Then get another fucking room! And don’t even start on the bunker excuse, there is a motel literally 5 miles from here. It’s not even our money we’re spending.”

“It isn’t about the money,” and Baby ignores his groan. “He likes how tight my interior is. How they have to squeeze, my backseat achingly full, to the point that it feels like they might not even fit. Don’t you, Dean? You love the way it seems like I’m hugging your shape, like I'm made for you.”

“I really, _really,_ have to insist that you stop.”

“I sit in the back,” Castiel finally finds his way into this disaster, his face a series of cringes.

“It’s not always inside me. Dean’s just as happy to be pressed up against me, metal heating up under his skin as he’s bent over my truck. The way I rock back into him as they thrust —”

“So when I say you’re not helping —”

“I’ve heard enough,” and it may be the best thing he’s ever heard his brother say. “Steph, would you mind letting—” hand hovering in the direction of laptop-girl.

“Samsung. You can call me Sam?” Before, “Oh…”

“It’s fine,” Sam starts, looking way too rattled to care about trivial things like a little name confusion, “I don’t mind sharing, does Samantha work?” She nods back, eagerly. “Okay. Steph, would you mind letting Samantha borrow some of your clothes?” She too decides that nodding is the safest choice, well aware that being an active participant in this conversation is not ideal. “And Cas, you have something stashed here Belle can wear?”

“I should have something that fits him in my room.”

“Do you have any extra product?” Belle asks, excited. “I have so many ideas for us to try out.”

“Great,” Sam huffs, reluctantly turning around to face _them_ again. “And if we’re getting you into anything, I suppose it’s going to have to be something of mine, Baby.”

“Call me Impala,” and Sam just stares. “It’s weird when you say it.”

“Yeah. That’s what’s weird about this.”

 

* * *

 

Sam does finally talk him into a pair of sweatpants, Baby adamantly refusing to put on a shirt. Dean does his very best to pretend to be on Sam’s side about this, the distraction truly not aiding his concentration as they try to work out a plan of what to do next.

Samantha has unfortunately lost her googling capabilities in human form so they’re stuck using Sam’s old laptop which makes molasses look fast due to all the viruses Dean’s packed on there courtesy of all the sketchy porn sites he visits. Sam makes sure, loudly, to let everyone know the diagnosis.

Sam only glares when Dean isn't phased, wisecraking instead, “Hey, there’s no wifi in the car but you've vetoed that option.”

The car which has not given Dean a centimeter of space since joining him on the couch after returning from Sam’s room. He tried, less and less subtly, to inch away until he finally resorts to a joke about personal bubbles.

“The first time you ever had a dick inside of you was inside of _me_ ,” is the worthy counter argument, worthier still for the way it makes Sam nearly choke on his sandwich.

 

* * *

 

In the end they decide that the only real option is the most obvious one.

“We’ll get some rest, and we’ll get back to practicing in the morning,” Castiel says, voice full of reassurance that is undoubtedly faked. “Alone,” he adds.

Stephanie only looks more apologetic at Baby’s, “Nothing wrong with an enjoying a leisurely pace. We're big fans of taking our time, aren't we Dean?”

 

* * *

 

Sam isn’t happy about the sleeping arrangements.

“Belle and Samantha have no problem being in their own rooms. And we have plenty of rooms.”

“He doesn’t want to be alone, Sam, and I’m fine with it. How many times have we slept in him? I don’t mind if he wants to sleep in my bed.”

The frown only deepens when Baby’s, “That’s not all I plan to be in,” can be heard by the both of them.

“If you fuck the car Dean —”

“You’ll what? Walk for the rest of your life?”

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t fuck the car that night but he _does_ cuddle with it. He somehow thinks Sam would think that’s worse.

 

* * *

 

At lunch the next day Castiel proudly proclaims that Stephanie has successfully transformed the roller skate into three different spatulas, three attempts in a row. She was attempting to turn it back into the mug but progress is progress.

“Looks like you’re stuck with us for now,” Belle offers, a shot at lightening the tension.

“I know a great way for us to get stuck together,” Baby adds, cranking it back up.

 

* * *

 

Sam doesn’t comment on the sleeping arrangement when he’s careful to go to bed early so he doesn’t have to watch them leave for Dean’s room.

The door isn’t even closed when Baby shoves off the sweatpants he’s been donning for the past 24 hours.

“You want me to get something else from Sam? I don’t think anything of mine will fit,” and he’s definitely not staring at his half hard dick.

“Everything about you has always fit just fine, Dean.”

No one has to know that he’s slept naked with his car.

 

* * *

 

Its a mug. Sort of. It’s pieces of what look like it _could_ be a mug.

“I have a lot of little parts,” Samantha says around a gulp. “What if they — I don’t think she’s ready to put them all back right.”

And Steph looks absolutely terrified as she stares at the picasso-esk lump of pottery.

“Don’t worry,” Dean reassures, looking between her and Steph. “We’re not going to do anything until we’re sure everyone's ready.”

Squeaking is a near miss as Baby’s mitt of a hand squeezes his thigh under the table, “Everything comes together so much smoother when you give the preparation it’s due time, doesn’t it, Dean?”

Sam storms out of the dining room.

 

* * *

 

The pretense of clothing doesn’t make an appearance as Baby shuts the door behind them, Dean climbing into bed wearing the nothing they’ve both seen plenty of times.

“What do you want, Dean?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen you take, I’ve seen you give. I’ve seen them make you squirm, I’ve seen you sprint for the ribbon. I know what you like, Dean, but what do you _want?_ ”

“I just want to sleep, man.”

Baby stares him down for a moment before finally nodding, slipping off another pair of his brother’s pants before climbing in next to him.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes up at 4 am with a boner pressing into the small of his back.

He knows he should think it’s a bad idea. He’s not even sure _why_ it should be a bad idea, he just knows that it should be.

It doesn’t stop him from pulling away, finding his knees, and taking as much of Baby into his mouth as his gag reflex will allow. Long fingers tangle in his hair, pushing him down just that bit more, and Dean doesn’t even pretend to fight it as he moans around the slide. There’s a warning, Baby knows that he likes to be warned, but he only jerks himself faster as he keeps the thick head in his mouth, tongue working the underside.

Baby laughs at his jokes about exhaust systems as he licks the cum off the corner of Dean’s mouth.

 

* * *

 

Sam knows. He literally can’t know. But he does.

The mug mostly looks like a mug today.

“Tomorrow,” Cas says and he actually may not be faking the surety this time. “We’re almost there.”

“You’re doing great,” Samantha adds, trying her best not to look scared at the thought — yesterday’s results still playing vividly behind her nervous eyes.

“And don’t feel pressured. I mean,” Belle fidgets, “I would really like to get back to my real form, as odd as that may sound to you guys. But it’s sort of been fun? Being like this?”

And no one even bothers to act surprised when Baby contributes, “Me and Dean always find a way to have fun.”

 

* * *

 

The mug is back to a mug by bedtime. It's a roller skate, it’s a spatula, it’s a working clock, it’s lots of things. And _consistently_ returned back into a mug.

“Looks like your freaking 8-pack is turning back to a V-8 tomorrow, Baby,” Dean jokes.

“Don’t pretend they both don’t get you where you need to be, sweetheart.”

Sam doesn’t even bother to sigh.

 

* * *

 

Dean knows they’re going to do it all the way back to his room and the tension of that builds up in his bloodstream until he feels he may just explode. He’s on his tiptoes, mouth crashing into Baby’s, before the door’s even clicked shut into place. He kisses back, just as roughly, for only a moment until his lips spread as he chuckles against Dean’s mouth.

“You’re doing 60 in a 40, sweetheart, foot off the gas for a moment. The destination ain’t going anywhere.”

He leads Dean to bed, stripping him gently as moves Dean around like the ragdoll he must look like in comparison. Dean’s on his stomach, nearly sobbing into a pillow that he’s _fucking ready_ when Baby only hushes into his stretched skin, “Since when do you not prefer the scenic road?” and a tongue is added to the fingers just for the sake of torturing him.

There’s a shift when Baby finally relents to the main drag, a whole new gear clicking into place as he’s lifted effortlessly onto his knees, lined up, and pushed into in one smooth motion.

“Holy shit you’re big,” escapes Dean without any input on his part.

“You’ve always been able to find enough space in me to accomplish the task,” Baby whispers, reaching around to stroke Dean’s stomach as he’s given only a breathe to adjust. “You’ll make room.”

“You sure about that?” He jokes, even has he pushes back against the intrusion.

“It’s like parallel parking,” Baby offers as he leans down over Dean, the soft skin of his abdominals pressing against the arch of Dean’s back. “The trick is,” he whispers, “not to overthink it,” and he bites the shell of Dean’s ear a split second before jerking his hips, the last inches filling him up with a hiss turned moan that he’d be ashamed of, maybe, if he knew Baby hadn’t already heard so much worse.

Neither of them last long which just gives them more time for round two.

Dean’s sore in all the best ways by morning, tempted to exaggerate the limp just to make Sam mad.

 

* * *

 

Cas looks confident. Steph is definitely trying to. And Belle’s voice only sort of breaks when he offers to go first.

His fingers are in Cas’ hair for a final fluff, a, “Remember. Never when wet, okay?” Before turning to Steph the way one meets their maker. “I’m ready!”

He’s no longer a him in the span of blink. They all stare at the pile of clothes on the floor for a moment before Castiel finally reaches down to pick it up, sifting through it until he finds the can amongst it. He holds it in one hand for a second before coming to a decision, shaking it gently before pressing down to squeeze out a bit of the foam.

He holds it up as if making a toast before working it into his hair, effectively undoing Belle’s work.

 

* * *

 

They take an hour break for Steph to catch her mental breath before Samantha, looking as confident as she has yet, insists that she’s ready.

“Remember Sam —”

“Close the windows when I’m done. Got it.”

She beams at him, before climbing up onto the table and laying down, hand forming a thumbs up before closing her eyes, and she’s gone just like that.

Sam awkwardly makes his way over to the table, pulling the laptop out of the sundress carefully before pressing the enter key a few times, the screen slips out of sleep mode and YouPorn lights up in all of its trashy glory. He slams it shut with a bang before looking guilty for it.

 

* * *

 

Sam, Dean, Baby and Steph make their way towards the garage, Sam making it as far as the kitchen before holding Dean back with a hand on his bicep.

“Dean — I don’t know if this sounds absolutely crazy but if you want to keep him — I mean, if you don’t want him to be turned back into a car —”

And Dean appreciates the option, he does, but his mouth is open to decline before an equally ridiculous paw comes down on his other shoulder.

“Dean needs his Baby, and as smooth a ride as your brother is,” Sam’s support system falling out of his face, “I miss being driven.”

They all walk him down to his designated spot, Baby leading the way. “No point in ruining a perfectly good pair of pants,” he offers as he slides them off, ignoring Sam’s, “I’m burning literally everything the two of you touched while alone,” as he hands them off.

“Think you’ll miss me, Baby?”

And Baby only winks back, “Oh, no, Dean. I’m sure I’ll be seeing _plenty_ of you soon enough.”

Sam’s, “No you fucking won’t,” is barely out before Stephanie must decide she’s heard enough for a lifetime and suddenly they’re staring down the grill of car which Dean is willing to swear on his soul is somehow even sexier than he remembers it being.

“Don’t you even dare let me catch you down here tonight, Dean.”

“I’m not going to _let_ you do anything. If you come looking then that’s on you.”

“So — I was thinking that it's probably safe for me to go home now?” Steph butts in, fully aware that this fight could take awhile if it’s left to play out on its own.

“I’ll go get the keys,” and Dean’s almost able to take a whole step before she nearly flails to stop him.

“As super weird as that would be,” she says, eyeing the car, “I think I’m just going to beg Castiel for a ride.”

“Yeah,” Sam huffs, “I can’t blame you there. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Dean lets himself hover just a moment as the two start making their way back, allowing his fingertips to drag along the crease of the hood. “Me and you, 11pm,” he whispers. “We’ll go for a spin,” smiling innocently as Sam turns around to glare at him.


End file.
